The Stories We Say
by lovablegeek
Summary: [PreRENT] Day after day, the stories we say draw us tighter into our addictions... MarkRoger, RogerApril [Complete]
1. Chapter 1

The first time Roger kissed Mark, it wasn't the perfect, right thing that a first kiss ought to be, it wasn't a long time coming or the culmination of anything, and Mark, at least, knew better than to think it was love. Roger was lonely and lost, Roger had just moved into the city and needed _someone_, Roger was a kid who wanted love so badly he was willing to snatch at the slightest glimmer of affection shown him in hopes it could be coaxed into a flame. Roger gripped his shoulders lightly and pushed him back gently against the couch, kissed him firmly, like he was afraid that any more hesitant and Mark would shove him away immediately. Mark could see the hesitance, though, when he pulled back at last, and looked at Mark with an expression that made it seem he expected some violent reaction. He looked _scared_, poor kid, and for a second Mark tried to think of a way to respond to this that would let him down easy.

And then he remembered that his latest girlfriend had dumped him this week, and that he was just as alone, if not as desperately lonely, and that it couldn't hurt anything, just this once. Roger would be fine. Mark reached up and rested his hand on Roger's shoulder, pulled him down and kissed him. Roger let out a soft, relieved sigh and leaned against him a little, returning the kiss warmly, and after a moment Mark shifted, rolling over to straddle Roger's hips, hands sliding up lightly under his shirt and his mouth on Roger's.

It didn't feel perfect, by any stretch of the imagination, it didn't feel like destiny or meant to be or forever, but it felt good _right now_. Skin on skin, low, hungry moans and heated kisses, and no, it wasn't the beginning of forever, but it was so easy that forever didn't matter.

* * *

Roger walked out of his and Mark's room in the morning with a smile, and Collins blinked when he saw him. To tell the truth, he was more surprised by the smile than the fact that it was _Mark's_ room he was coming out of. Collins hadn't seen the kid smile since he moved in, not beyond that tense, nervous smile that couldn't rightfully be called a smile at all. It was a little odd, actually, seeing him really smile.

"Enjoy yourself last night?" he asked dryly, knowing perfectly well the answer. It wasn't hard to make enough noise to be heard through the thin walls in the loft, even after Roger and Mark had moved into their bedroom.

Roger flushed a little, the color painfully obvious in his cheeks, and glanced down. Collins decided to let the question drop, instead pouring and holding out a cup of coffee to Roger, which he gratefully accepted. "Thanks. I, um... thanks."

He sat down gingerly at the end of the counter, on one of the stools there. Still awkward and uncertain around any of his roommates – except, it seemed, for Mark. He took a sip of his coffee, sat there for a moment, and then glanced up at Collins. Collins pretended not to notice, deciding it would be best to give him space until he wanted to speak. Sure enough, eventually, he did.

"How... how long have you known Mark?"

"A couple years," Collins answered slowly. Already this conversation made him... not nervous, but uncertain. Wherever it led, he was sure he wouldn't exactly like it.

"Do you... know what he thinks of me?" Roger asked, and his eyes were on his coffee mug again, because apparently that was a safer thing to look at than Collins.

"He likes you. I think he probably considers you a friend. Why?"

"I don't know." Roger shrugged, eyes still fixed on his coffee. "It's just strange how we... _know _each other. Like we've known each other for longer than..." He trailed off with another shrug.

Collins considered telling him that maybe he shouldn't get so attached to Mark so quickly, that yes, Mark _liked_ him, and that he almost certainly wouldn't do anything to intentionally hurt him, but that this probably wasn't as serious as maybe Roger thought it was, and...

He took one look at Roger's faint, distracted smile, and decided it would probably be useless.

* * *

As uncertain as he'd been that first time, it didn't take Roger long to learn just what it took to make Mark pant and whimper and squirm. He was a fast learner. It didn't take long, either, before he'd simply abandoned his own bed, and spent his nights in Mark's, curled against his back, one arm around his waist. Mark never saw a reason to tell him to stop, because no one ever said it _had _to be a matter of forever, and who said there was anything wrong with what was right right now?

In the back of his mind, he knew there was something wrong with it, if only because of the _way_ Roger's arm rested on his waist, like he thought it was supposed to stay there forever. The gentleness of his touches, the way he looked at him, and maybe he should stop this now, but Roger_ never _said the word "love", and neither did Mark, so it couldn't hurt anyone, right? That logic seemed to work in Mark's mind, no matter the evidence to the contrary, the sense of unspoken words hanging in the air. It wasn't ever said, so it couldn't be real.

Except that Mark had always known that wasn't true. The unspoken was as real and tangible as anything else, but if he told Roger to back off, he'd be alone in bed again every night, and he'd gotten used to being... not alone. So he let Roger stay. If the touches were sometimes a little too loving, Mark could always sink his teeth into Roger's shoulder and arch against him, and that distracted him. If the look in Roger's eyes was sometimes a little too intense, Mark could always close his own eyes and pretend he hadn't seen it.

* * *

Mark slammed the door shut and rushed down the stairs, cursing under his breath. He'd meant to be at Roger's show before it started, Roger had _asked _him to be there beforehand for some sort of reassurance or whatever, but he'd gotten so caught up, he'd lost track of time, and he was already five minutes late. He slowed a little as he reached the bottom of the stairs, sighing a little. It was a ten minute walk to the club, at least, and he was already late – it wouldn't hurt to be just a little later.

He shouldered open the door out of the building and headed down the street, shaking his head a little. It wasn't like Roger would yell at him for being late, but that disappointed look in his eyes would be bad enough. Worse, really. It reminded Mark too much of the hurt looks he got other times, when he thought Mark wasn't looking, every time Mark gave him not _quite_ enough, and what the hell did Roger want out of him anyway?

Absently, Mark dug a quarter out of his pocket and tossed it to the street drummer on the corner as he passed, nodding slightly when the boy thanked him. He waited for a car to drive past, and then jogged across the street, mentally reviewing the directions to the club and hoping he didn't get lost on the way and be even later. Oh, hell, would Roger even notice when he came in? He'd be playing, the stage lights would be on him... Mark could just as well say he'd come in earlier, that Roger just hadn't noticed him. Maybe that would keep him from giving Mark that _look, _the one that made him want to put his arms around Roger and just hold him at the same time it made him deeply uncomfortable.

He found the club at last, and ducked inside, glad to find that it was loud enough and dark enough that Roger wouldn't notice him immediately. That would certainly make things easier. He found his way to the bar and ordered a drink, then turned to glance at Roger, grinning a little as he watched him. Whatever encouragement he had been looking for from Mark before the show, he seemed to be doing fine without it, confident and seemingly at home under the bright lights. He seemed to take in the light and make it a part of himself, with a bright smile, practically glowing with excitement, the light glinting off the chain around his neck. It was the most confident Mark had ever seen him, outside of when it was just the two of them, alone.

It took him several minutes to find a table, nearer to the stage than he'd have liked, but it was crowded, and he'd have to settle for what he could find. For a while he was left on his own, quietly watching Roger and his band, inexplicably glad that he could watch Roger for once without Roger catching his eye and unsettling him with some too-fond, too-intense look. It was nice, just this once.

A few minutes later his attention was taken off of Roger by a girl who sidled up to his table and asked if she could sit down, with a smile that would make anyone agree immediately. She sat down and started talking to him, and Mark smiled back at her, because she was fucking gorgeous, and he couldn't help it. And he didn't protest when she shifted her chair closer to his, when she put her hand on his thigh, or leaned in to murmur something in his ear (ostensibly so he could hear her over the music) or reached out to play with his hair, because it wasn't like he and Roger were _together_, really, it had never been anything permanent and it wouldn't hurt anything if he flirted with this girl...

Somehow those thoughts faded immediately from his mind when he looked up as a set ended and found Roger staring at him from the stage, looking stricken.


	2. Chapter 2

Roger doesn't say anything about it when they get home. Well, when _he_ gets home. He vanished shortly after the show, and when Mark couldn't find him, he walked home alone. Roger comes in an hour or two later, his head bowed like he's trying not to look at Mark, pale blond hair shielding his eyes, mostly. It's a little eerie, how quiet he is, because Roger's _never_ like this around Mark, there's always a smile and a kiss. This time he simply sets his guitar down just inside the door, shrugs off his leather jacket, and heads directly to their room. Mark watches him go for a second before getting up to follow.

He finds Roger lying on his own bed, for the first time in months. He hasn't even bothered to shed his clothes, though it's been warm enough lately they generally don't wear anything to bed at all. Mark frowns a little when he sees Roger hasn't even bothered to kick off his boots, and is just lying there, face down in his pillow, the very picture of teenage despondency. He looks so terribly young like that, Mark can't decide whether he's more worried or exasperated by it.

Mark walks over and sets his hand on Roger's back – he doesn't move. "Roger," Mark says softly. "What's going on?" Roger mumbles something indistinct and burrowed a little deeper into the blankets and pillows. Mark sighs, and debates just giving up, but... this is probably his fault. He ought to fix it somehow. He doesn't want to sit here and baby Roger, though. He wants to snap at him that he wasn't even _doing_ anything, just talking, but he knows that won't make the situation any better.

Instead, he leans down and brushes his lips over the back of Roger's neck, where there's the soft, short hair right there at the nape of his neck, and is rewarded by a slight shiver from Roger. "Isn't it a little early for bed?" he asks, and Roger just shrugs stubbornly without looking up.

At this point Mark would feel entirely justified giving up, but he decides to give it one more try. He kisses Roger's neck again, nuzzling his face against his hair, and runs his fingers down Roger's back. "You should at least change, if you're going to sleep now."

He sits down on the bed, one leg curled underneath him, and lightly tugs Roger up. This time Roger complies, twisting around and sitting up, but keeping his back to Mark. When he starts to take off his shirt, though, Mark slides a little closer to him on the bed and slips his hands underneath the shirt, palms against Roger's sides. Roger flinches, twisting a bit like he means to pull away, but he doesn't quite get that far. Mark's hands move up, pulling Roger's shirt with them, and after a moment Roger simply complies and lifts his arms so that Mark can remove the shirt, though he's still not said a word.

Mark lets the shirt fall to the side of the bed and lays his hands flat against Roger's back. This time Roger doesn't flinch, but Mark feels, or maybe imagines that he feels, a slight tension as his hands make contact with Roger's bare skin, like there's something uncomfortable and a little painful in the touch, heat lightning passing from his palms into Roger. Slowly, he runs his hands up his back on either side of his spine, keeping his hands flat against him, spanning out over the curves of his shoulder blades when he reaches them. He pauses to massage Roger's shoulders with his thumbs, feeling a tense knot of muscle there, just as he'd expected. Roger's silent for a moment, and then a a soft noise escapes his throat, half-stifled, soft and low and it's enough to send a shiver up Mark's spine as Roger leans back a little, pressing into Mark's hands.

His hands slide back down after a minute, fingertips ghosting over Roger's ribs so that he shudders a little, and Mark smiles faintly. He grips Roger's waist lightly and kisses his back, just above the angle where his shoulder blade sticks out. "You might want to take off your boots."

It's a moment before Roger responds, with a soft, "Hmm?"

Mark laughs softly. "Your boots, Roger." He pulls back a little so that Roger can pull them off. They thunk onto the floor, one after another. Mark takes the opportunity to lean over on the bed to the small bedside table that's between his bed and Roger's, pulling out the bottle of lube they keep in the drawer there; he sets it on the bed, beside his leg, for the moment, in easy reach. Once the boots are off, Mark reaches out to lightly tug on the hem of Roger's pants and, taking the hint, Roger quickly pulls them off and kicks them into the small heap of clothes at the side of the bed. Before he can turn around, Mark grips his waist again and leans forward, lips tracing slowly up Roger's spine once more.

"Hey, Roger?" Mark asks, his mouth on the very top of the spine, at that place it projects just a little before meeting the neck, breath barely moving the tiny hairs there.

Roger drops his head a little, presumably so that Mark can get at his neck a little better. Mark obliges by shifting up onto his knees, his mouth moving up to Roger's neck. "Yeah?" Roger's response is soft, a little hesitant, and a little strained. He's not the best at carrying on conversations when distracted.

Mark bites the scruff of his neck and there's another of those soft noises from Roger, not quite a whimper, not quite a moan. Mark's fingertips trace over the small of his back, down to the place where his spine curves in just a little and the slight ridge of his tailbone. "You know I wasn't doing anything,right? At the club?"

There's no immediate answer. Mark doesn't like that silence. Finally, Roger says in a slightly halting voice, "That girl was all over you. Her hand was..." He trails off and starts to turn to look at Mark. Mark doesn't let him turn all the way, just wraps an arm around him snugly and catches Roger's mouth with his. Roger quickly gives up trying to argue.

It's not until later that Mark remembers seeing the dark line on Roger's arm, just inside the curve of his elbow, and wonders about it, but he doesn't own Roger, and decides it's not his place to ask.

* * *

Roger steals a glance at Mark across the room, just out of the corner of his eye. He can look at Mark straight on some of the time, when they're joking around, bullshitting to pass the time, when Mark's got that faintly mocking smile that assures him nothing that passes between them need be taken seriously. But at moments like this, when everything's quiet and that soft, unspoken _something_ between them seems to grow and fill the room, Roger's almost afraid to look straight at Mark – it's too much like staring at the sun, he's afraid it will leave some part of him burned, scorched and hollowed out. He's afraid Mark will catch him looking, and give him one of those profoundly unsettled looks, refuse to really meet his eye.

Mark's lounging on the couch and reading, flat on his back and twisted into an odd position so that his head's propped up against the arm of the couch and his feet are on the back of the couch. It looks like it ought to be uncomfortable, but he seems perfectly content like that, and entirely unaware of Roger looking at him. Roger wants to set down his guitar, go over and lie down next to Mark, rest his head on Mark's stomach and just stay there, for no other reason than to be close to him. Instead, he looks back down at his guitar and plays a few chords, trying to keep it quiet so he doesn't disturb Mark's reading. Mark doesn't take much notice of him anyway. Roger hadn't expected him to.

He plays for a few minutes, but his mind isn't on the music. It keeps circling relentlessly around Mark, his eyes and smile and the sincerity of either, the girl in the club that night and Mark's promises it was only talk, the sex that night and Mark's refusal to acknowledge he'd done anything to hurt him. Mark's refusal to care. Roger is young, but he's not stupid, and it hasn't escaped his notice that Mark's not once said the word "love", even after so long.

"You think I'm really stupid, don't you?" he mutters bitterly under his breath, still staring at his guitar. Mark glances up.

"Huh?"

Roger shakes his head shortly, without looking up. "Nothing. Never mind."

* * *

Much as Mark tries not to care too much, he's not blind. As careful as Roger is to hide some things, Mark still sees. Roger never comes home when he's high, never lets Mark come with him anymore when he's with his band after shows, an though he doesn't often wear long-sleeved shirts to cover his arms, he tries to hold them so Mark won't notice, when he remembers to do so, or he keeps his jacket on even when it's unnecessary. But he can't cover and avoid all the time, an Mark can't help but notice that the track marks are accumulating on Roger's arms, one slender, dark line after another, like an ugly bruise or a blood blister, only seen in the dark.

Roger's hand is pressed to Mark's bare chest, spread out flat like he's trying to find his heartbeat, fingers spanning over the skin. For some reason, Mark's more focused on the hand than he is on Roger's kiss, and after a moment he breaks the kiss and grips Roger's wrist lightly, turning his hand over and tracing the lines of his palm with a thumb. It always surprises him, how big Roger's hands are, broad and a little rough. It seems they ought to be more slender, delicate, and Mark isn't sure why he thinks that, but it catches him by surprise every time.

Mark dips his head to place a kiss in the center of his palm, along the curve of one of the more prominent lines of his hand, while Roger watches him, bemused. There's a faint smile up at Roger, and Mark kisses his wrist, right at the pulse point where several blue veins intersect underneath the white skin. He can feel Roger's pulse under his lips, surprisingly fast. Still a nervous kid, whatever else he tries to pretend.

Roger lets him for a moment, and then yanks his arm away suddenly, like Mark's touch burns him, and he shifts his arm a little, not quite putting it behind his back, but far enough back that Mark can't easily grab it, and twisted so he can't see the track marks. Like Mark didn't know they were there...

"Roger," he sighs, not sure what else to say. Roger doesn't let him get any further anyway, but leans forward and kisses him, doubtless to cut off further conversation. Mark notes wryly that Roger learned that trick from him, and with a frustrated growl he pushes Roger back on the bed, straddling his hips and kissing him a little too hard while he grabs Roger's hands, pins him by the wrists with his arms above his head. The track marks are clearly visible that way, but Roger seems to have forgotten about them now, with Mark's tongue tracing over his nipple, light and teasing. Mark figures that if he keeps this up, if he keeps his mind on this, he'll forget about the marks too.


	3. Chapter 3

When Mark comes home, he's a little surprised to see that Roger's not there – Mark knows his schedule, and knows he's got nowhere to be right now_ but _home. Collins is at the table, shifting through papers with a cup of coffee resting safely to one side, and after a moment he glances up to catch Mark's eye. Neither of them need to speak. Collins can see the question in Mark's eyes, and simply inclines his head to one side to indicate the window. Frowning, Mark walks wordlessly to the window to find Roger sitting on the fire escape, on the stairs halfway between their floor and the next one down.

He pushes open the window, and Roger jumps at the sound, whirling around so quickly Mark's a little afraid he's going to tumble down the stairs. Mark steps out the window carefully, leaving it open behind him – even with Collins inside, he's still concerned he might get locked out. "Hey," he says softly to Roger, with a flicker of a smile.

"Hey."

"What're you... doing out here?"

There's a shrug, sullen and somewhat juvenile, and Mark fights back the urge to sigh. There are times he feels more like Roger's parent than his...not boyfriend, not lover... he doesn't even know what. "Thinking." Roger stands there for a moment, and then sits back down on the stairs, nearer to the top this time, turning his back to Mark and folding his arms over his knees.

Mark goes to sit down beside him. There's barely room on the narrow stairs for the both of them, their shoulders and knees touching. Roger tugs his jacket a little tighter around himself, hunching his shoulders. "Thinking about what?"

Roger doesn't answer for a long time, just stares out at what's straight ahead of him, the street, cars, building after building, and the slate-gray sky. Mark follows his gaze, trying to find what Roger's looking at, but there's nothing out there but cars and buildings and the sky, and he gives up after a moment, realizing that whatever Roger sees, it's only visible to him. Mark leans toward Roger, nudging him with his shoulder. "What're you thinking about, Rog?"

Another long silence, and then Roger glances sideways at Mark, his hair falling over his eyes so it's hard to see exactly what he's thinking. "Do you love me, Mark?"

The question takes Mark so by surprise that he's silenced for a while, staring at Roger and searching for something to say, _anything_ at all – the truth, a lie, something completely out of the blue, anything. The silence is too long for Roger. He lets out a disgusted sigh and gets up, walking to the window, his eyes on anything but Mark. Mark scrambles to his feet quickly, knowing he's upset, desperate to fix it somehow.

"Hey, hey, Roger," Mark says, and grabs him by the arm, pulling him a step away from the window. Roger watches him for a moment, while Mark just looks back at him, lost for words, his arms gently looped around Roger's waist. Roger waits, and then his lips twist into a sneer, he jerks away and ducks back in through the window.

"Yeah, I thought so," Roger mutters, and Mark just barely catches it, standing there on the fire escape and staring as Roger stalks past Collins and out of the loft, slamming the door behind him. Mark just stands there for a moment, and then with a sigh steps inside as it starts to rain.

* * *

Roger bolts down the stairs, barely hearing the metallic slam of the door behind him, and runs out onto the street, darting out just ahead of a car as he crosses 11th. He doesn't stop until he's standing in the middle of the park, panting a little, hot despite the rain. It's not even a real rain, just a dreary drizzle falling out of an August sky, and his jacket weighs heavy on his shoulders. Slumping onto a bench, he pulls the jacket off and sets it on the bench beside him, still fiddling with the chain on the side just for something to do with his hands.

He knows he shouldn't have asked the question. He_ knew _it had been stupid, he knew exactly how Mark would respond and knew he wouldn't like that response. He doesn't know why he asked anyway, except that there had been some silly, childish hope in the back of his mind that he'd be proved wrong. All he'd wanted to hear was one word. _Yes_.

But that's too much to ask for from Mark, isn't it? Too much to ask, when the emotions Mark feels safest with are separated from him by a camera lens, or safely fictionalized, a screenplay, just words on paper. They can't touch him or hurt him. Roger curls his hand into a fist and bangs it down on the wooden boards of the bench a couple times, and it's not hard enough to hurt him, just to make the bench shake a little. Fucking coward. How hard would it be to admit he cared – or tell him he didn't, if that was the case?

Roger feels tears starting in his eyes, and clenches his jaw, tilting his face up to the sky, eyes closed. The drizzle hit his face, beads of water collected and rolled down his face and chin, down his neck... The collar of his shirt and his hair are quickly getting soaked, especially as the rain starts to come down harder, raining in earnest now, but Roger doesn't bother moving. So he'll get wet. It won't kill him, and the rain will disguise the tears, if he's crying at all. He can't tell anymore.

After a few minutes he reaches over to pick up his jacket, fold it and settle it on his lap – not that that keeps it any more dry, when_ he's _already soaked, but at least it keeps water from puddling in the folds of the jacket where it had been lying beside him on the bench. A little water probably won't hurt it. Roger silently watches the water as it lands on the jacket, beads and rolls down, either to soak into his pants or drop to the ground.

Mark could follow him. It's not like it would be so hard. There's only so many places Roger goes when he's upset, and Mark knows most of them, and he was _just_ behind. Roger knows Mark won't follow, and knows too well to hope he will. Roger is young, but he's not stupid.

He watches the rain slide down his jacket, form little puddles on the uneven pavement of the park, until someone catches his attention. Even raining, the park isn't empty. There are tourists, scuttling out of the rain, hurrying to hail a cab; there are those who live here, trudging to work or home, with or without raincoat and umbrella; there are those, huddled in the middle of the park or against buildings, who have nowhere else to go. And there is a man in a gray hooded sweatshirt, hands shoved in his pockets, confident and cocky as a tomcat. Roger can almost see his tail twitching smugly. He catches Roger's eye, and Roger freezes like a mouse under a cat's gaze.

Neither of them need to say anything. He's still got some cash in the pocket of his jacket. He pauses, pulls the jacket on – though he's still hot, and now it's uncomfortable, with the jacket on over a soaked shirt – and shoves his hand into his pockets, searching until he finds a couple bills shoved into one of the inside pockets. It's enough, and he pushes himself off the bench and starts toward the guy, head bowed, his hair falling haphazardly into his face where it wasn't plastered to his head. One good thing about the rain, at least, is that it keeps people from taking too much notice of what's around them. No one's paying attention enough to see this little transaction.

As he hands off the money, and gets a small packet of smack pressed into his palm in return, Roger looks up into the dealer's face, for reasons he doesn't quite understand – he tends to avoid the man's gaze most days, but right now something makes him look up and really study him. He'd figured his dealer was older than he is, and now that he really looks at him he can see that he is older, but not by as much as Roger thought, a year, maybe two. His dealer has a young face and these bright blue eyes, sandy blond hair, and it terrifies Roger how much old hurt he can see in those eyes. It terrifies him that someone not that much older than him can accumulate that much hurt. He turns away quickly, and hurries away – not back to the loft, not yet, just anywhere that's not home, and not here.

* * *

Mark's not usually asleep so early, but if he were ever to just collapse into bed, this would be the day to do it, when Roger still isn't home and Collins keeps giving him these looks that he knows mean 'you really screwed up this time, boy,' and Mark's feeling bad enough for everything that happened without that. He could have said something, one word, and instead... The word wouldn't come out. Roger couldn't _blame_ him for that, could he?

But he's managed to fall asleep alone for the first time in months, asleep without Roger curled at his back, arm looped around his waist, his cheek resting against Mark's shoulder. It's more lonely than he'd think, sleeping like this.

And then, out of nowhere, there's a body flopping down alongside him on the bed, there's a hard mouth on his and a hand sliding down the front of his boxers, and he's suddenly jolted awake. It's waking up to Roger, grinning slightly into the kiss, hazel eyes looking straight into his, though the black of his pupils almost obscures the color, and Mark's never seen Roger high, but he knows immediately that this is what it looks like.

"Roger, what–"

"Shut up, Mark," Roger mumbles against his lips, cuts off any response with another hard kiss, and Mark's shocked, not least because Roger's never really spoken to him like that. Roger is quiet and... not shy, but certainly not like this, and while he never was afraid of being forward – was almost afraid not to be forward – this is something different altogether. But Mark can't find the words with which to protest, so he lets Roger pull off his boxers, lets him wrap his hand around him while he nips and sucks at Mark's neck. Mark knows he's high as a paper kite, and when Mark grips Roger's arm, fingers pressing tight against the skin, he can feel the track mark under his fingers.

He wonders if it has anything to do with the unanswered question earlier.

He doesn't have to wonder, though. He already knows.


	4. Chapter 4

Roger is, surprisingly, awake before Mark in the morning, and Mark only takes notice of it because it's decidedly odd now to wake up in a bed without Roger beside him. The weight at the foot of the bed quickly gives away Roger's position, but that doesn't much explain what he's doing. Mark frowns and reaches over for his glasses on the bedside table, searching for a moment or two before he locates them and puts them on, and the blurry figure of Roger resolves to a clearer image. Almost immediately, Mark wishes he'd kept the glasses off.

Roger looks so terrifyingly serious, his eyes fixed on Mark, and he doesn't smile at him – Mark's gotten used to Roger's smile being one of the first things to greet him, waking up. From the look on Roger's face, it's too early for whatever Roger has to say to him, Mark doesn't want to hear it. So he doesn't ask what Roger's doing sitting there staring at him, just mumbles a soft, "Hey, Roger," and rolls out of bed to get dressed. He makes certain not to meet Roger's eyes – if he's not looking at him, if he pretends not to take too much notice of him, maybe Roger won't find the opening to say whatever he means to say.

It's a stupid ploy, and Mark's not surprised when it doesn't work. "Mark," Roger says, and though Mark's back's to him and he's in the middle of pulling his shirt over his head, he answers with a muffled, "Yeah?"

"I just... I wanted to tell you..." Roger's voice is halting and uncertain. Mark keeps his back turned to him, hoping he'll trail off entirely and never finish the sentence. But when Roger speaks again, after a moment or two, his voice has hardened, resolved now. "I have to leave."

Mark turns around immediately to stare at him, frowning a little, mouth slightly open as he searches for something to say in response. He wants to ask, strangely, if Roger's breaking up with him, but that's silly, they aren't even _together_ in the first place, and there's no way to ask that without sounding like a woman or something. So he settles for asking, "What?"

_Now_ Roger looks down, avoiding eye contact. He sits there, legs crossed Indian-style, twisting his hands in his lap. "I'm – I'm not leaving you... Well, no. I guess I am. I don't know what else to–"

"Roger, what're you _talking_ about?" Mark asks sharply. Given how flustered Roger seems by this, maybe he ought to be a little gentler, but it's too early in the day to manage gentle. Roger sighs and slides off the bed, all without looking at Mark.

"I'm moving out."

"What?" There's a bag sitting by the doorway, already packed – how had he managed packing without waking him up, even with as little things as Roger would have to pack? Roger starts toward that bag, and Mark quickly steps between him and the door, putting his hands flat on Roger's chest to stop him. "_Why_?"

Roger's lips twist into a pained smile. "Because I can't stay."

"That doesn't make any sense," Mark says pointedly.

Roger pushes past him gently, and Mark stumbles backwards, too startled to resist. "One of the guys in my... band has a... place on Broadway. He told me I could stay with him until I found my own place. Or just... you know... stay there for good, as long as I paid rent after a month or so. So I'm... I'm going." He picks the bag and slings it over his shoulder, bends down to pick up the guitar case right next to it, and then glances back to Mark. "Tell Collins and Benny I said goodbye, alright?"

"Roger..." Mark starts to say, but there's nothing to say, and they both know it. Roger leaves, and Mark is left standing there, frowning slightly and trying to process it all.

* * *

Hunter's apartment is bigger than the loft. Warmer, too, as it's got central heating and – well, it's an actual apartment, instead of a rundown old music factory. The central heating is a nice thing, what with the sudden cold weather, unusual for early September. The roof doesn't leak ever, and Roger appreciates that, with the rain lately. And he likes Hunter – if he didn't, he wouldn't be in a band with him – he likes Hunter's roommates and everything, and he's at least _comfortable_ here.

But somehow this place seems oddly empty, compared to the loft. There may be Hunter and his buddies staying up until dawn with alcohol and joints, talking about nothing of import, but it's nothing like those three AM conversations with Collins that Roger misses. There's Hunter and his girlfriend in the other room some nights, being ridiculously loud, which leaves Roger to wonder if he and Mark were _ever _that obnoxious, and deciding that they couldn't have been, Collins or Benny would've thrown something at the wall to get them to shut up. In the mornings, he brushes by Hunter and his roommates in the kitchen, getting coffee, and they're all quiet because none of them want to talk that early in the morning, but it's not the companionable silence of the loft, it's the uncertain silence of a group of people who maybe like each other but _like_ is as far as it extends.

And he sleeps on the pullout bed in the couch at night, with no pillow and a kind of worn blanket someone dug out of a closet, and he's never felt the _absence_ of someone so sharply, and he thinks about going back to the loft (back to Mark), and he wonders if it's possible for emptiness, loneliness, _desire_ to stop a heart, because it feels like it, much as it hurts.

But then he remembers the hurt of other absences. The absence of the word "love" in any of their conversations. The absence of concern, when there are some things Roger _knows _he knows. The absence of certainty of where he stands with Mark. And he decides this hurt doesn't nearly match those other hurts.

Roger curls himself a little tighter into his borrowed blanket, and ignores the fact that the bed's empty and cold and something right in the center of his chest hurts. Maybe that's what Mark_ is _for Roger, maybe that's what he's meant to be, hurt whether he's with or without him.


	5. Chapter 5

Neither Benny or Collins says much when Mark told them Roger had said goodbye. Benny nods and says something about how it's too bad, he'd like Roger. Collins is silent on the matter until a couple days later, when Benny's out and it's just him and Mark alone in the loft. It's a simple question, but one that makes Mark look up at him. "So what'd you do?"

Mark stares at him for a second. "What do you mean? I didn't do anything."

"Why did Roger leave, then?"

Mark shrugs. "Hell if I know. I woke up, and he just told me he was going to move in with his friend, some guy from his band..."

"Mark, that boy practically worships the ground you walk on. He wouldn't leave unless you did something to make him." Collins watches him steadily, brown eyes locked with Mark's blue. Mark can find nothing to say to that, and so he's silent until Collins asks again, "What did you do?"

Mark sighs and gets up, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on as he does. He needs to get out of here. Suddenly it's claustrophobic, suddenly he needs to get out in the open air and away from these questions. "Nothing. I told you."

"What didn't you do, then?" Collins asks, his voice still soft.

Mark stops dead and glances back over his shoulder at him for a moment. His face twists into a grimace, and he turns away, shoving the door open and hurrying down the stairs, thinking far more than he would care to about the answer to Collins' question.

* * *

Roger never used to take the subway. When he and his roommates are more often than not scrambling for money for rent and food, even the small amount of cash for the subway just wasn't worth it. But now, with fall setting in and the weather turning gray and dismal, hell if Roger's going to walk fifty blocks or so in the rain with his guitar in a gig bag. He'll go without dinner tonight if he has to, the subway ride's worth it, just for being dry. He can hardly show up for a show completely drenched.

He flops onto one of the bright orange seats, propping his gig bag up against the seat beside him and keeping one hand on it protectively. Even if he hasn't seen or spoken to Mark for... over a week now, it's a good day. He's got a show tonight, and that always puts him in a good mood. The hurt, that aching spot in the middle of his chest, has faded a bit, and if it's not gone completely... there will be something after the show, some needles, pills, powder, something to numb it enough that it's good as gone. This is, for Roger, a relatively good day since he's left the loft.

He's staring out the windows absently as the train moves, keeping silent track of where they're stopping, though the conductor's announcements go mostly unheard. They go right past him, part of the background noise – "This is Christopher Street. The next stop is 14th Street" repeated four or five times, and then "Please stand clear of the closing doors". Roger's not paying attention to that, and only peripheral attention to the people around him.

He doesn't notice her either, when she first gets on the train, at 28th Street. She sits down in the seat across from his, drops her bag onto the seat beside her, and crosses her legs, one foot bouncing slightly, though whether it's from the movement of the train or from some tiny expression of pent-up energy, it's hard to tell. He doesn't_ really _take notice of her until he realizes she's watching _him_, and then he looks up, a little startled. She smiles at him when he does look up.

There's no denying that she's pretty. She's wearing a blue shirt that brings out her eyes, short, curly hair dyed a sort of red or strawberry blond, a round face that makes her look sweet and innocent if it weren't for that smile. Roger decides that he likes her smile, that wicked, mischievous light to it. It reminds him of Mark in his best moods, when he's playful and sardonic and brilliant and wonderful...

She gets up, and sits down next to him, on the other side from his guitar. She's still smiling. "Hey."

"Uh... hi." He's a little surprised. Smile or not, he hadn't really expected her to approach him, and now that she has... He didn't want to _talk_ to her. Not really. He's not so great with that anymore, not unless he's drunk or high or both, because otherwise it feels like some sort of obscure betrayal of Mark, not that he can imagine Mark would give a shit either way.

"My name's April."

"Roger. Davis. Hi," he says, and realizes he's already said hi once before. She doesn't seem to notice, or else just brushes over it without much caring. She nods to the guitar case, and her eyes meet his briefly. He'd think they were the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen, if only it weren't for the thought of _Mark's_ eyes in the back of his mind.

"Are you a musician?"

"Um... yeah, actually. I'm... I've got a show in a little bit. That's where I'm... going to. Right now." He scratches the back of his neck uncertainly, not entirely sure he's comfortable with the way she's looking at him, but on the other hand he _wants_ her to keep looking at him like that. Want overpowers discomfort, before too long, and he adds a little haltingly, "You could... come if you want."

* * *

Mark hadn't thought he'd miss Roger as much as he does. He'd thought that once he got past the irritation of missing the sex, missing the comfort of someone beside him at night, he'd be fine. Sure, he_ likes _Roger, he'll even say he's friends with him, but he'd never considered the possibility that maybe it might be more than that.

But like doesn't quite explain the twinge of regret when he walks into the bedroom and sees not one thing of Roger's in there, or the sense of emptiness when he's sitting in the loft and doesn't hear music drifting through the air as Roger plays something to himself, trying to work out some melody. _Like_ doesn't quite apply when Mark's got this voice in the back of his head telling him to _find_ Roger, apologize, ask him to move back in because damn it, this is stupid and he_ wants _him back. Like doesn't quite cover that, but Mark doesn't want to think about what else it might be, doesn't want to think that without Roger around the world's just a little duller, a little quieter, looking a little less like the place he wants to be.

So he doesn't think about it. He films things on the street, figuring he can cut it into some film later, he can always use good stock footage, but that's not quite enough to occupy his mind. He writes scripts and screenplays, but somehow the same words end up in every one of them (_"I have to leave"_),and he ends up balling them up and throwing them in the trash. Neither Collins or Benny comments on the growing mountain of balled-up papers in the trash can, and they don't comment when Mark ends up giving up and tossing his notebook across the room, watching silently as it hits a wall and falls to the floor.

It's got nothing to do with Roger, and it's got nothing to do with love, Mark tells himself. But of all the fucking times for him to hit this block in his writing, this has got to be the worst.


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes, on a good night when everything's flowing and the music seems to run through his veins right along with the smack, everything kind of runs together and Roger feels a sort of synaesthesia. Notes and melodies paint colors in the air, images run like watercolors and he can taste them, warm and sweet on his tongue. Tonight, April blends in with all of that, and he can't take his eyes off of her all through the show. When the show's over and he gets off the stage, he seeks her out immediately, and there she is, winding her arms around his neck and kissing him. Ordinarily, he'd back off right then. Ordinarily, the thought that he'd just met this girl, the thought that he doesn't really_ know _her would make him back down. As it is... between the smack, and April's kiss, which is a drug in itself, and missing Mark so much, he doesn't really care that he doesn't know her.

He returns the kiss and then pulls back to smile at her, his eyes bright, expression shining. "Did you like the show?" That question always matters to him, no matter who he's asking, but right now it seems to be of special import, as if what April thinks is of utmost importance.

She doesn't seem to think it is, though – there's a flippancy to the way she grins and pulls him down to her, and murmurs softly, "Of course," before she kisses him. It's a little sloppy, because she's as high as he is, and a little drunk on top of that, he can taste the alcohol in her kiss, but it still sends a pleasant jolt through him as she pulls him closer against her, standing on tiptoe so her hips rock against his, her breasts against his chest. She tugs at his lip lightly with her teeth as she drops back on her heels, and smiles up at him. It's wicked and wild, and he'd never have guessed her capable of such a devilish smile when he first saw her on the subway, but he can't say he minds in the least.

She's got a hand on his waist, and the other hand slips lightly into his, slender and tiny in his palm, and she starts to tug him gently through the club, the noise and heat and crush of bodies, to the door that leads backstage. Roger hesitates, looking back over his shoulder – he ought to help the band break down the equipment and back everything up. But April grins up at him, wickedly as before, and murmurs in a low, honey-sweet tone, "Come on." That decides him – not the words, really, or even the way she says it, but the way it makes his stomach drop, his blood rush in his ears.

He lets her pull him through the door, where there's not even really a room, just a narrow hallway only half-lit, empty, and somewhat comforting in the darkness, and he knows what he's doing now, even if it's been over a month since he's fucked anyone, and that was Mark and he doesn't like to think of what he did with Mark as _fucking_, that's too cold, too emotionless, too violent. _This_, though, he doesn't mind calling fucking.

He pulls his hand free of hers and pushes her against the wall, not roughly but far from gentle, and kisses her while he pushes her skirt up a little, and he can feel her smirk against his lips as she winds her arms around his neck.

* * *

A month or two ago, it might have bothered Roger to wake up in a strange apartment. Now, he's not in the least perturbed by it, perhaps because since he moved in with Hunter he's woken up in a strange apartment every morning, regardless of the fact that he's actually living there now. April's already awake and out of the room, but he can hear her moving around in the other doorway, so he lies there in the empty bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling quietly. He hadn't had the chance to notice last night, but everything in April's apartment is neat and tidy, the sheets clean white, no unnecessary clutter – not so neat that it doesn't seem like a human lives here, but certainly not as wild as he'd expected it to be. He'd expected her apartment to match her wild, dangerous smile.

It takes a while to register sounds beyond those of April – he assumes it's April – in the other room, steps of bare feet on tile and the soft clink of plates or cups, early morning kitchen sounds. Underneath that, though, there's something else, and it takes him a moment or two to recognize the other sound he's hearing, of rain pelting against the window, driven against the glass by the wind. He props himself up on an elbow and twists around to look out the window, watching water sheeting down the glass for a moment before rolling out of the bed and hunting down his clothes to pull them back on. He'll have to take the subway again. He can't risk the rain soaking through his gig bag and getting his guitar wet. He tries to think if he actually has the two dollars for it, and can't remember. It's hard to think past the faint longing for a hit – not desperate, not something he won't survive, but it's distracting, something nagging in the back of his mind.

He's pulling his shirt over his head as he walks out of the bedroom, and trying to remember where he put his jacket – there it is, on the floor by the couch – and April smiles at him when she looks up at him. She's sitting at her kitchen table, in this too-neat, too-nice apartment on the Upper West Side that she shouldn't be able to afford, someone her age, someone like _her, _a girl who uses and picks up guys from bands and brings them home... It's odd, an inconsistency, her and this apartment, one he can't quite figure out. He decides not to spend the energy. If it were Mark, he would have, of course – and as soon as he thinks that he scolds himself, he's got to stop thinking about Mark, because every time he does there's that pang in his chest, and the only way to make it go away is to _stop_. But he doesn't know her, and probably won't ever, once he leaves, so there's no reason to try to figure it out, much as he wants to.

"Hey," she says softly, and he gives her a tight smile in response to her own easy, confident grin.

"Hey." He picks up his jacket and pulls it on, shrugging it onto his shoulders.

"Are you... going home?" she asks, and Roger's not sure if that's a twinge of regret he hears in her voice. Maybe he's imagining it.

"Well... yeah."

"You want a cup of coffee, or just, I don't know, stay until the rain lets up a little?"

He hesitates, as he did the night before, in the club, seized by a sudden fear, sudden reluctance, something in the back of his mind telling him that staying, talking, getting to know her beyond a casual fuck would be just an opportunity for her to hurt him. _Like Mark. _He has one constant hurt already, one wound that won't quite heal, and he didn't need another. But it _is_ raining out, and there's was that hopeful air to her smile... "Sure."

"Coffee pot's right there," she says, pointing. "Mugs are in the cabinet right above it."

He walks over to where she indicated, pausing as he passes by the fridge to frown at a single Post-It note stuck there, eight lines of a poem. _Hold fast to dreams... _April notices him looking, and after a moment smiles almost shyly and says, "That's just a... I get poems in my head sometimes. Like people get songs in their heads? I write them down until I can remember where they're from. Once I had this William Blake poem stuck in my head for, like, a month–"

"Langston Hughes."

"What?"

"The poem," he says, gesturing to the Post-It note. "It's by Langston Hughes." He moves on to grab a coffee mug and get himself coffee, but he does notice her smile, quiet, almost charmed, like she's just learned something about him she hadn't expected to find, and he certainly has about her.


	7. Chapter 7

"Are you going out?"

Mark stops in the doorway and turns to raise an eyebrow at Benny, his expression momentarily blank. "Uh... yeah. Why?"

Benny shrugs and gestures to the window. "Well, it's raining pretty hard..."

"Yes, and if I were the Wicked Witch of the West, that would concern me. Since I'm not, I think I'll be fine. Anyway, I have work." He turns quickly and steps outside, pulling the door shut behind him and wondering why the hell Benny _cares_ if he's going out in the rain or not...

It's not until he's halfway down the stairs that he realizes Benny might not have meant anything by it, that it might have just been an innocent question. Making conversation. It's a little late to take it back the sardonic retort now, though, so he continues down the stairs and out the door, sighing a little as he bows his head and steps out into the rain.

He used to have an umbrella, he could swear... Probably buried under one of the piles of crap scattered throughout the loft by now. Or maybe Roger'd taken it with him when he left. He discards that thought almost immediately, though, because Roger forgets to grab an umbrella or a coat when he's just going outside, let alone moving out...

He shouldn't be thinking about Roger at all, really, but as much as he invades his thoughts recently, he's given up. Not love, no. Not that Mark could even say what love feels like, but this isn't it. Obsession, maybe, but he'd never thought of himself as the type to get obsessed, and...

While his thoughts wander off, his feet carry him down one of the walkways in the park, not particularly caring of where he's going, nor of the rain now plastering his hair to his head, running down the back of his neck – he's wet already, a little more can't hurt – and maybe he's not exactly walking in the direction of the diner where he works, but he's not in a rush, he's got time...

There's a homeless man sitting on a bench, hunched into his coat against the rain, holding a sign that might say something about being a Vietnam veteran, maybe – it's hard to tell when the rain's made the ink seep into the cardboard. Passing by, Mark shoves his hand into his coat pocket on impulse, fishes out a couple quarters and drops them into the cup sitting beside the man on the bench. He nods at the murmured thanks and then turns away, his thoughts quickly turning back to questions of love and obsession, and does it really matter which, if the outcome's nearly the same?

Pathetic. Pathetic and useless, because he's gone now. Mark keeps his hands shoved into his pockets as he walks, out of the park, down the street, and he realizes he's heading in the exact opposite direction from work, but he doesn't care right now. They won't murder him for missing one day, and he'd rather wander about the city than serve food to cranky customers, some of whom would doubtless only be there to get out of the rain. Even if skipping a day means not being paid, means not necessarily eating tonight, means...

"Whatever," he murmurs, shaking his head, and keeps walking. He keeps walking until he realizes he's turned down Broadway and is walking south, in the direction of Roger's new apartment – because Roger had left a note on the table, with the address, just in case they needed to get hold of him, and somehow without trying to at all Mark has memorized it, and what the hell is he_ doing_? Mark turns on his heel and begins walking the other way, taking several deep breaths, eyes on his feet. He's not obsessed or in love, damn it, but whatever the hell this is, it needs to stop, he needs to forget anything ever happened between him and Roger. If only he knew how to manage _that_.

* * *

When Mark gets home, he's cold, and wet, and feeling no better than he'd been feeling when he left the loft. It's irritating that the cold and rain don't even have anything to do with his mood, although they certainly aren't _helping_. He half slams the door closed behind him, stalking to the kitchen. Collins gives him one look, eyebrows raised, before shaking his head and looking away. Benny doesn't bother with such tact.

"What happened to _you_?"

Mark flips him off, strips off his coat with a grimace, the damp cloth of his shirt clinging to his body. "It's raining," he answers, dropping his coat carelessly on the counter before hunting through the cabinets. He's certain there's still a can of soup somewhere, and that should be warm enough to counteract some of the chill...

"Yeah, it's raining, but you look like a drowned rat," Benny says while Mark's still rooting through the cabinet. Locating a can of chicken soup in the back, Mark grabs it, straightens, and hefts the can so Benny can see it.

"You keep this up, and I will throw this at your head."

Collins makes a sound that's suspiciously like suppressed laughter. Benny just rolls his eyes, and after a second Mark gives up on being threatening, sets the can on the counter, and finds a can opener. He's silently debating what to do with the soup once he's heated it. On the one hand, eating it would warm him up. On the other, the idea of dumping hot soup on Benny's head is so _very_ tempting.

"You need to get laid."

That suggestion earns him a glare, and a decision. The soup is now destined to become a weapon. "Yeah, and when's the last time you got laid, Benny?"

"Yesterday."

In the middle of prying off the lid of the soup can, Mark looks up sharply, and then hisses sharply as he manages to cut himself on the sharp edge of the lid. "Ow! _What_?"

"Yes, I am seeing someone. Don't have a heart attack or anything."

Mark mutters under his breath and dumps the soup into a container to heat it, trying to ignore the fact that his finger's bleeding, and then when it's _still _bleeding a minute later, grabbing a stray dishtowel to staunch the blood. He doesn't speak for a minute or two, then finally looks up at Collins. "And I suppose you're getting laid too, aren't you?"

Collins is momentarily silent before saying slowly, "You don't want me to answer that."

Mark drops the dishtowel on the counter, and his finger's still bleeding, but slowing, and he doesn't think they have bandaids anyway. "Am I the only one here not having sex?"

"Well," Collins begins, and then stops himself. Finally, he offers in a way Mark can tell isn't really meant to be helpful, "None of us are having sex right this instant."

Mark grumbles and frowns at the cut on his finger, watching as the blood wells up, and tries to pretend somehow that it's just about the sex.

* * *

Happiness shouldn't be a foreign feeling for Roger, but it almost is. Not _quite, _but so close the difference doesn't much matter, and that scares him a bit. He_ is _happy, though, and that matters very much. Happy that the rain has stopped, happy on a leftover high from the show last night, most of all happy about April, and that she'd kissed him goodbye when she left, and pressed a piece of paper with her phone number into his hand.

So he's humming as he walks back home, smiling slightly to himself, gig bag with his guitar in it slung over his shoulder, wearing the same loose purple shirt and jeans he'd been wearing the night before, and God, _happy_... He heads up the stairs to Hunter's apartment when he reaches their building, taking them a little more slowly than he usually would because he's trying to fish the key out of his pants while being hampered by the gig bag and trying not to overbalance because of it, and his head's down as he reaches the top of the stairs. It's only as he turns down the narrow hallway and is almost at the door, and finds a man leaning against the wall beside the door, with a familiar slouch, wearing a familiar plaid coat.

_Oh God._

"Roger," Mark says softly, pushing himself away from the wall.

Roger's frozen in place, staring at him. "What're you doing here? Is... is something wrong, or...?"

"No, that's not... I came to see you."

And then he's stepping forward and kissing him, and Roger closes his eyes immediately, and if he thought he was happy before, that was _nothing_ compared to this. Underneath that happiness there's a jolt of fear –_ I can't leave you again, I can't do that to myself twice, please don't make me _– but this feels too right, too close to perfect, to pay any heed to the fear. When Roger breaks the kiss, it's only so that he can unlock the door and pull Mark inside, and it's a damn good thing none of his roommates are home, because nothing's going to stop him from pushing Mark down on the couch right then and there, kissing and touching and feeling Mark's skin against his.

"I love you," he whispers, and for this instant, doesn't even care that Mark doesn't answer.


	8. Chapter 8

Roger doesn't want to ask why Mark came back. He's afraid the answer will be something like... loneliness. Boredom. That Roger was the best option available, but by no means the first choice. And no, Mark never _says_ those things, and Roger doesn't honestly think he_ would _say any of that, but when he never says any of the things Roger_ wants _him to say either – not even love, just some indication he cares beyond a sort of friendship – he can't help but assume...

He watches, quietly, as Mark pulls his shirt over his head, runs his fingers through his hair in some attempt to smooth it or tame it or something. It doesn't work. Roger grins despite himself, and Mark notices out of the corner of his eye, turns to look at him. "What?"

Roger looks down and shakes his head, though still smiling a bit. "Nothing."

Even without looking up, he can tell Mark's still watching him. It's a couple seconds before Mark says at last, "Alright."

He grabs his coat, and Roger looks up _then_. "Are you going?" He tries to keep his voice neutral, as devoid of hurt, concern, hope as he can manage. He knows it's still there, and he knows Mark can hear it.

Mark meets his eyes. Roger had forgotten how much he missed that shade of blue – April's eyes come close, but don't quite meet it. "I figured I should go before your roommates show up."

"I don't mind if they see you," Roger murmurs, though he can well imagine Hunter's slightly mocking smirk, taunting comments. If Mark would stay, Roger wouldn't care.

Mark doesn't answer for a couple seconds, and when he does it's not directly, because that would be too simple. "Are you actually living here?" he asks.

Roger's silent for a moment. "All of my things are here."

"So you're staying here." Mark shrugs his jacket onto his shoulders. "But..."

Roger bites his lip, wishing he actually understood what went on in Mark's head, wishing he could guess his motivations, because all of this would be so much easier if he could just... "What?"

"I just wondered if you'd be coming back."

"Back?"

"To the loft." Mark pauses, and there's a silence that makes Roger's stomach twist uncomfortably, and he's not even sure why. "I never wanted you to leave."

God, Roger's chest hurts, and he barely resists the urge to rub at his chest like there's an actual physical hurt. He also just barely resists the urge to tell Mark yes, absolutely he'll come back, as soon as possible. He's not stupid, he's not going to trip all over himself just so Mark can turn away from him again – however much he wants to.

"I'll think about it."

* * *

It's a few days before April finds it, lying on the floor beside the couch. It's a guitar pick, dark against the cream carpet, and she wonders how she didn't notice it before this – it must have fallen out of Roger's jacket pocket when he left. She picks it up, holds it in her palm, so light that its weight barely registers. After a moment she tucks it into her wallet, because she can think of no other place to put it.

Roger had called her, last night, to ask if she would come to his next show, the night after tomorrow. Maybe she'll give it back to him then. Maybe she'll just keep it there in her wallet, a reminder, though of what she's not quite sure.

* * *

Mark comes to see Roger two, three times a week, sometimes when Roger's roommates are there, sometimes when he's alone. It's usually unannounced, a surprise, and Roger almost wishes he could pretend it's an unpleasant one. The first few times, after that first, half-desperate reunion, Mark takes the lead, gentle but demanding, but after that Roger won't let him. He grips Mark's wrist, bites his lip, presses against him roughly, and if he notices bruises on Mark's wrists, if Mark sometimes winces, if Mark occasionally murmurs "not so hard," Roger tells himself he doesn't care, because he's not Mark's fucking toy. If Mark can take this so casually, and not care what comes of it, God damn it, so can he. When Mark leaves, he always feels empty, used up. When Mark's there, he feels alive, he feels happy, he feels dirty and tainted – hurt, with or without.

He calls April sometimes, after Mark leaves, and he knows he sounds tired and distant but he can't help it, and April always asks what's wrong and Roger always tells her it's nothing. He asks her if he can come over, and she always says yes – he ends up in the Upper West Side at two, three in the morning, she lets him in and she's gentle and sweet and warm, and they just lie there afterward, his head on her breast, her fingers running through his hair.

She tells him she loves him, one night, and he's too startled to speak. Maybe she thinks he's already asleep.

April is at every show, even if Roger only mentions it in passing. Mark is at none, though Roger drops every hint he can think of, and goes unheard.

Where Mark leaves him feeling dirtied and spent, April leaves him calm, and cleansed. Mark is desire and disappointment, April is solace. Mark is heroin, wearing on him, addictive, killing him bit by bit but it feels so good that it doesn't matter; April is music, a natural sort of high, the kind that leaves him feeling whole again.


	9. Chapter 9

"Your boyfriend called."

Those are the first words from Hunter's mouth when Roger steps inside, and Roger freezes momentarily before shrugging off his coat and closing the door behind him. "Mark?"

"Yeah, I think that was his name," Hunter says, though he sounds rather disinterested. He's sitting at the table bent over a notebook, a pen in his hand, and Roger supposes he's trying to write a song or something. It always takes him forever to do that, but when he does, they're usually much better than Roger's songs, so Roger's jealous of him for that.

"He's not my boyfriend," Roger murmurs, and it hurts to say the words, but it's_ true_. Mark doesn't want him as a boyfriend, just as a fuckbuddy, so that's what they _are_. Hunter doesn't respond to that – it hardly matters to _Hunter _what Mark is to Roger – and so after a moment Roger asks hesitantly, "What did he want?"

"Didn't say. Asked for you to call him back." Hunter bites his lip, scribbles something in the notebook. Frowns, and crosses it out after a moment.

Roger sighs and crosses the room to grab the phone. He pauses, wondering if maybe he ought to take it somewhere private, or ask Hunter to go to another room so that he can talk in relative privacy, just in case Mark wants to talk to him about something... important, but he dismisses that after a moment. Hunter is paying no attention to him, and since when does Mark ever talk about the important things? Not important things about his own life, at least. With the big things, politics and philosophy and the rest of it, he's almost a match for Collins, but when it comes down to life, love... No, it won't be important. Probably something like "I think I left a shirt at your place, and have you seen it?"

Roger dials the number of the loft, slowly, punching each number precisely, his eyes on the number pad. It's funny how he can dial April's number without even looking at this point, but this number takes thought, and a pause for memory to kick in. Roger waits as the phone rings, waits for the answering machine, because no matter what, even expecting a call, they would be screening. There's the message, and the beep, and Roger takes a breath before speaking.

"Hey, Mark? Hunter told me you wanted–"

"Roger!" As quickly as Mark picked up, Roger would almost think that Mark had been sitting by the phone and _waiting_, but that wasn't right, that wasn't Mark. Probably coincidence.

"Hi... You wanted me to call?"

"Um, yeah. I know I already asked you before, and you told me you'd think about it, but that was a while ago, and the landlord's being an ass about the rent, so... you wanna move back in? We really need you around here."

What hurts the most, really, is that it's almost, almost what Roger wants him to say. But it's _we need you_, not _I need you_, and Roger's chest constricts just a little. The question is there, though, the offer is there, and Roger has no reason to say no. But God, why couldn't that _we_ be an _I_, just once?

* * *

April knows that when Roger's _with_ her, he's not really with her. He pretends to be, and tries so hard to be, but she can tell his mind's somewhere else. She's young, and yes, she's daddy's little girl, living in an apartment her father pays for, but she's not naive or easily fooled.

She wouldn't ever mention it to Roger, because she knows exactly the reaction she'd get. He'd stare at her, wide-eyed – and those hazel eyes could break your heart, too damn innocent for someone who lives in the city, who plays rock shows at clubs and shoots up afterward – and then stammer that he didn't know what she was talking about, that of _course_ he's with her, and the worst part is, he'd believe it. So she doesn't say anything, she just lets it go, tells him she loves him whenever she can find the courage, and makes do with the "I love you too" he gives in response, like he just doesn't know of any other response to give her and that's why he says it. It'll do.

April never was one to settle, so she's not sure why it is that Roger makes her willing to do that. She wants him to say he loves her and means it, but she'll settle for the rote response he gives. She wants him to kiss her all hungry and fierce and needing, with the sort of passion she can hear in his songs, but she'll settle for sweet and desperate and lonely. She wants _him_, every bit of him, nothing but him, but she'll settle for the bits and pieces of himself he's willing and able to give her. She wants, so badly, but she settles because she knows the easiest way to lose something is to want it too badly.

* * *

"Hello?"

April recognizes Hunter's voice – she's never been to Roger's apartment, but she's met Hunter at shows, knows him well enough that she's not surprised when he picks up the phone. "Hi, Hunter, it's April..."

"Oh, hey, April! What's up?" His voice is bright, cheerful now, much more than it had been when he first picked up the phone. April knows Hunter has a thing for her, it's not like he was subtle about flirting with her when he sees her at shows. She brushes it off.

"Um. Is Roger there? I'm sorry to bother you, it's just I haven't seen him in a couple days and he didn't call or anything, and I just wanted to make sure I shouldn't be worrying or anything..."

"Roger?" The way he says it makes April wonder if he's high or something – he sounds like the question's an odd and completely unexpected one, and April fights back the urge to come back with a sarcastic comment of some kind. A moment or two later, Hunter says slowly, "Roger moved out, went back to live with his b– uh, friend. He didn't tell you?"

"Oh. No, no, he– he told me. I guess it just slipped my mind. Um, thanks anyway..." And April hangs up the phone before Hunter can respond, feeling a little shaky, a little uncertain, and more than a little betrayed. She doesn't mind settling, but couldn't he at least do the courtesy of pretending she means something? Her hand rests on the phone for a moment, and then she pulls it away, standing up, walking slowly to the window with its perfect view of the city, biting her lip and staring out in silence. Somehow, her hand finds its way into her pocket, her fingers running over the thin, smooth plastic of a forgotten guitar pick like it's some kind of reassurance.

It's not.


	10. Chapter 10

Roger's not sure he's entirely comfortable sleeping in Mark's bed – it gives everyone (including himself) the wrong impression, that they're a thing, which they are, he supposes, but not _that_ kind of thing. And there's something about Mark's bare skin under his arm, his back against Roger's chest, the sound of Mark's breathing when he's sleeping that _hurts_... But he'd be even more uncomfortable moving to his own bed across the room every night after Mark falls asleep, and that would be letting Mark know he _cares_, so he stays.

Anyway, after so long without it, it almost feels like he needs the touch and the sound of breathing to survive. He's not going to test it.

Days get shorter. Nights get longer, and colder. The bruises on Mark's wrists, and the bite marks on his neck and collarbones fade, and Roger doesn't leave any new ones – he's not so angry anymore. Life in the loft falls back into its normal pattern, the way it was before Roger left, and it's so close to perfect. Would be perfect if not for one thing. He can ignore that.

This could be convenience. This could be that the bed's warmer with two, and yes, he _could_ be sleeping with April and still is, but April's about fifty blocks away, and Mark's right there. This could be habit, and it's easier to keep it up than it is to stop. This could be anything but love.

Roger's getting good at lying to himself like this.

* * *

"It would have been nice if you'd just _told_ me you were moving. I had to find out from Hunter."

"I'm sure, baby." Roger's smile's a little hazy – he must have shot up before the show, before she got here, and that's odd in itself, because usually Roger doesn't need that until _after_, the high of the music's enough to carry him through. "It just came up, and I forgot..."

April sighs and glances down, absently brushing a few blond curls from her eyes, and nods slightly. "Right. I understand. Just... I like to know things. I'm your girlfriend, after all."

For a second, something flickers over Roger's face- it's just for a second, and then it's gone, though he's not very good at hiding emotion when he's high. "Right. I'm sorry." There's still a trace of something in his eyes, but April can't decide what it is, and decides she doesn't want to figure it out.

She stands up on her tiptoes to kiss him lightly, and he returns the kiss with his usual gentleness. Right now, it almost makes her want to scream at him. When she drops back onto her heels, she smiles faintly, like she doesn't care – like there's nothing to care _about_. "I just don't understand why you moved so _suddenly_." Her mind keeps telling her to let it go. She doesn't want to know. She _knows_ she doesn't want to know. Her lips keep talking. "What came up?"

"A friend called me. I mean, he calls all the time, it wasn't the phone call..." He's running off on tangents. He does that when he's high, his thinking gets all fuzzy and he runs off on odd tracks. April's silent, and waits it out. "Needed someone to help pay the rent, and Hunter doesn't _really_ need my help with that, so..." There's a pause, and he looks at April, the hazel of his eyes barely visible around dilated pupils, and he's not her Roger (if he ever was that). "He's my best friend. Not Hunter, I mean. Mark. The one that called me."

He leaves it at that, but April can tell there's something more, something else. Roger thinks she doesn't see the secrets in his eyes, when they're written there for anyone to read.

* * *

"You're sleeping at this time of day?" Mark asks as he steps into the bedroom, pulling off his coat, sitting on the edge of the bed to kick off his shoes.

Roger wonders briefly why Mark's speaking to him when he was sleeping (or not quite), and with a sigh shifts around a little, then buries his face in the pillow. His voice comes out muffled, but still understandable when he responds, "It's cold."

The bed shifts as Mark moved, and Roger lifts his head at last to look up at him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg folded underneath him, his knee almost touching Roger but not quite, and he's watching him with his head tilted to one side with an oddly considering look, and a smile. "It's cold so you're sleeping?"

"Cold makes me sleepy," Roger says diffidently, and then pushes himself up on one arm to lean in and kiss Mark lightly. Mark returns the kiss, pressing in to him, and soon Roger falls back onto the bed, Mark following him down until he's leaning over him, braced on both arms, half-lying across Roger's chest.

Much as he likes _sex_, sometimes Roger prefers just _kissing_ Mark. It's the soft, pleased noises he makes in the back of his throat, the way he nips at Roger's bottom lip so _very_ softly, the way he clings to Roger's shoulders... It's heady, almost like a drug. It makes Roger feel wanted, _needed_, makes him believe that it's there and simply unspoken. He pulls Mark a little closer, eyes closed as he draws a slow breath that somehow remains steady.

Mark pulls back after a minute or two, and Roger opens his eyes. "Where'd you go last night?" Mark asks, and Roger blinks.

"What?"

"Last night. You were here when I went to sleep, and then when I woke up you were... gone."

"Oh. Um. I went out. To see someone." Roger feels his stomach drop and God, why now, why did he have to ask at a moment when everything was almost right?

"In the middle of the night? Who?" Mark raises an eyebrow skeptically, sitting back, and Roger sits up so that he can look at him straight on.

"April," Roger all but mumbles. There's still that raised eyebrow, and after some time, he admits at last, "My girlfriend."

"Your... oh." Mark has suddenly gotten cold, suddenly shut down, and Roger feels a shiver run down his spine. He reaches out, puts his hand on Mark's wrist, and to his relief, Mark doesn't pull away.

"It's not like... It doesn't make anything different." Mark doesn't say anything, so Roger leans toward him, kisses him. It's not as sweet as it was before.

* * *

It's quiet in the loft, for once – it snowed tonight, and that always brings a sort of hush over everything, like the snow muffles everything, or simply draws every part of the city into quiet withdrawal even for just a short time. It's easily fifteen degrees outside, maybe less, and even in the loft, everyone can see their breath. It's warm in the bed, curled up with Roger, though, and Mark has no intention of moving any time soon. With all the quiet, he can hear Roger's breathing perfectly, slow and even, and he absently presses a kiss to Roger's bare shoulder. He feels safe, doing things like that simply because he feels like it, when Roger's sleeping, when he'll never know about it.

He doesn't realize Roger's not asleep until he speaks, his voice soft, hushed as if he doesn't want to actually break the silence. "Mark?"

Mark freezes for a moment, and then says softly in answer, "Hmm?"

"You know I love you."

Mark's silent, thinking of an answer, and at last settles for a noncommittal noise that means nothing at all. It's enough for Roger to go on, or maybe he would have gone on without any response from Mark anyway.

"Please say it to me," Roger says, and his voice drops into a whisper that breaks Mark's heart wide open, almost scared. He's just a kid, grasping at love wherever he thinks he sees it, he's so young, and so unable to conceal the need in his voice... It hurts. "Just once. I don't care, lie to me if you have to..."

Mark doesn't say it. He doesn't answer at all, because he truly can't decide which would be the lie – to tell him that he doesn't love him, or to say that he does. 


	11. Chapter 11

Benny is almost always the first one awake in the mornings. It's not really by choice, and he doesn't really _need_ to be awake then, it's just that the alarm in the room he shares with Tom goes off at 6 AM every morning, and they've had the stupid thing forever, and neither of them can figure out how to make it _stop_ going off at 6 AM, or change the time it goes off at. Tom always just rolls over, throws his pillow at the alarm clock, and goes back to sleep. Benny gets up, because he knows that if _someone_ doesn't, no one in the loft is ever going to be awake before noon.

Every morning he gets up, makes coffee, tries to make as little noise as possible until someone else wakes up because he knows they'll all yell at him if _he's_ the one to wake them up, and usually he's by himself until nine or ten in the morning when finally Tom or Mark gets up as well. It's routine.

Which is exactly why he's surprised when he comes out of his bedroom and realizes that, for once, someone woke up before him.

Roger's sitting there, on the couch, in the dark with his shoulders hunched, head bowed slightly, and in the quiet of the loft this early in the morning, Benny can hear his breathing, even across the room – it's rough-edged and slightly halting, like... like he's crying. Benny walks over and turns on a lamp, and Roger jumps when the light comes on, like he hadn't noticed Benny until just then.

"Roger?" His voice is kept low out of habit, more than anything else – Tom and Mark are still sleeping, and will still yell at him if they get woken up.

Roger looks down and rubs at his cheeks awkwardly with the back of his hand, sniffling a little and trying to hide it – yeah, he's been crying. "Hey," he says softly, and gives Benny a watery sort of smile, putting on his best pretense of being okay. "Morning."

Benny lets out a breath, and he knows he's going to regret the question, but he asks anyway. "Are you alright?"

Benny never can forget how much younger Roger is than all the rest of them. It's in everything about him, the slight uncertainty in every movement and word, like he's still unsure of _himself_, hasn't quite grown into himself yet. There's that uncertainty plainly visible as Roger opens his mouth like he's going to say one thing, then stops himself, looks down, and is silent for a while before he says anything. "I think I have to leave."

"What, again? You just moved back in." Benny moves around the couch to sit down, still with a safe distance between him and Roger. He's not good at comfort, he knows that, and Roger's the type that reaches out for comfort wherever he thinks he can find it. He figures with that gap between them, it'll keep him from doing that, though he's not all that sure. He can see the tears still wet on Roger's cheeks.

"No, I don't mean..." He shakes his head almost violently, and the movement throws his hair into his face, shielding his eyes. "I'm staying here. I promised I would."

"So, what–" Benny stops, and draws a slow, hissing breath. "Oh."

He thinks he sees a bit of a sardonic smile on Roger's lips, and there's a soft, watery chuckle. "Yeah. Oh." He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand and shakes his head, more slowly than before. "Not right away, but I just... I know I can't do this much longer."

Benny gets up slowly. "You want some coffee?" he asks lamely, simply because he can't think of anything else to say, and is relieved when Roger nods.

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks."

So Benny goes to start making coffee, and tries to ignore the boy still sitting on the couch, leaning forward, forearms resting on his legs and hands folded in front of him, and he almost looks like he's praying, a little kid asking God for heaven knows what.

* * *

April's finding it a little hard to breathe in the club, and it's a little hard to decide whether it's just the atmosphere of the club, the smoke and the crush of people, the dim light and the pounding of the music in her ears that's starting to give her a headache, or if that feeling of not being able to breathe is something else altogether. She's inclined to think the latter, if only because every time she looks over at Roger, up on stage, something in her chest clenches, and her breath is stolen away once again. It hurts, and it doesn't help that she fucking _needs_ a hit, and knows she can't get one, not now, now that she knows that she's...

Roger doesn't know she's here yet. She'd meant to be here before the show to talk to him, but she couldn't get up the nerve – anyway, she wouldn't want him distracted on stage... She's sitting at the bar with two glasses in front of her, one full of water that she keeps sipping nervously, because her mouth keeps inexplicably drying out, and another full of beer that she hasn't touched.

She taps her fingers on the counter, looks uncertainly back to Roger, and God, he's so beautiful. Shining under the lights like an angel, or some ancient god, slender and graceful and looking almost like he's made out of pure light himself. She wants to reach out and touch him, take that light into herself, but instead she turns away again, blinking back the tears in her eyes. God, she _can't_ tell him, she can't. He's still too innocent, still too young. She can't just go up and turn his world upside down by telling him she's _pregnant_.

But she knows she won't be able to lie to him either.

She pushes it out of her mind for a while, listening to the music, songs she always wishes were written for her but knows weren't, glancing back to Roger occasionally, every look driving another painful sliver of doubt into her heart. It's some obscure form of masochism, she realizes, and finds that odd, because she'd never thought herself the masochistic type. Clearly, she was wrong.

She's been watching Roger for a minute or two when she feels a touch on her shoulder, and she jumps enough to nearly fall out of her chair, whirling around to find herself facing an unfamiliar man who gives her a quick smile, holding up his hands in reassurance. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you or anything..." He slips into the chair beside her while he's talking, glancing over to the stage briefly, and then back to her.

April forces a tight smile, reaches for her water again to take a sip, and realizes it's gone, there's only ice left in the bottom now. She sets the glass down again, taking a breath. She's not in the mood to be flirted with by some guy in a club. There are days she wouldn't care, days she might even go along with it, but this isn't one of them. "Listen, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I really don't–"

"Do you like them?"

"What?"

He smiles at her, and he really does have a nice smile – he's _cute_, a little boyish, but there's a maturity around his eyes that keeps him from seeming _innocent_, like Roger. "The band."

"Oh," she says softly. "Oh, um, yes. I– I know the singer..."

The smile disappears from his face with startling suddenness. "I'm sorry, what's your name?"

"April," she says, feeling something in her stomach drop a bit. She knows she doesn't want to be having this conversation, not now – she isn't sure why, but there's that very definite feeling – but there's no graceful way to get out of it. So she sits there, and asks in a conversational tone, like none of this matters though she knows, somehow, that it does, "And you?"

"Mark Cohen." There's a pause, like he's debating with himself, and then he says firmly, "His boyfriend."

April's silent for a moment, and she'd thought she couldn't breathe before, but it's _nothing_ to what she's feeling now. Now, it's like she's been punched in the stomach, like all air's been suddenly sucked out of the room and she's left in a vacuum, except that even in that vacuum she can still hear Roger's music pulsing in her ears – or maybe that's just her own heartbeat. Searching for words, she can only come up with, "Oh," and "I should go," and "Tell him I said hello," and then she's picking up her purse, rising to her feet, walking for the door.

She knows as she leaves that she's lost all chance of ever telling Roger what she came here to tell him, all her nerve, and that Roger still didn't even notice she was here.

* * *

Mark's been drinking quite a bit by the time Roger gets off stage, trying to forget that one slip of the tongue. _Boyfriend?_ What the hell had he been thinking? At least he hadn't said it to _Roger_, but... That was April. _The_ April. The April that's Roger's girlfriend, and Mark would be kidding himself if he thought what he said wouldn't eventually get back to Roger... Fuck it.

And the worst part of it all is that it hadn't been a slip of the tongue at all. It had been deliberate, he'd actually _thought_ about it before he said it... Mark slams his hand down onto the counter with a soft growl.

"...Mark?" comes Roger's startled voice from behind him, and Mark takes a breath, turning around to face him.

"Hey," he says, the word a soft exhalation.

"Are you... okay?" Roger asks, sounding uncertain. Mark isn't paying quite as much attention to the way Roger sounds as to the hand Roger's placed on his shoulder, his slightly concerned expression... He smiles at him and nods.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You ready to go home?"

"Um, yeah, just..." Roger pauses and shifts his gig bag a little higher onto his shoulder, glancing around the club. "I saw you talking to a girl during the show..."

Mark freezes. "Yeah?"

"Was that April, or was I just...?"

Mark resists the urge to turn and bang his forehead against the wall, or scream in frustration, and simply says evenly, "Yeah. It was." Before Roger can asks if she's still around, he adds in a flat tone, "She left."

"Oh. Alright. Thanks."

Mark's chest hurts a little at the dejected look on Roger's face, but at the same time there's this twinge of triumph, and he leans in to grip the front of Roger's shirt in his hand and kiss him, nipping lightly at his lip before letting go. Roger's expression shifts, from dejected to a faint, hesitant, hopelessly pleased smile,and _now_ Mark knows why he'd said what he had to April, because he gets Roger here, to himself, and he can't imagine that April could ever make Roger look like he does right now.

Mark almost thinks that he'd say anything to make Roger look that happy. _Almost_. 


	12. Chapter 12

April stares at the phone, holding her breath as it rings, and not even realizing that she had been until finally it stops ringing and she lets out the breath. The machine beeps once, and Roger's voice comes on the answering machine, with what sounds like a muttered curse and then a soft, "Okay, April, please pick up the phone. I know you're there... You've got nowhere else to be right now. Just... please, baby, talk to me? You could at least let me know what I did, because you just disappeared the other night and you haven't called me since and I'm starting to get a little worried... Just call me back, okay? I– Bye."

She shivers a little as she hears the click of him hanging up the phone, and with a sigh drops her head to her knees, curling into a tighter ball on the couch and choking back tears by sheer force of will. He would have to sound so sweet and concerned, wouldn't he? So dejected, so it makes her want to hug him and smooth his hair from his face and assure him he's done nothing wrong... Except lie to her, except not tell her about his goddamn boyfriend – and how long has he been keeping that a secret? – except be too damn sweet and innocent to be really angry with, even now.

She runs her fingers over his guitar pick, smooth plastic underneath her fingertips, and draws a slow breath. She can't avoid him forever. The red beeping light on her answering machine is proof enough of that. But she can avoid him for a few days longer, until she can figure out what the hell she's doing. Until she can get her head and her heart under control, if that's ever going to happen when it comes to Roger. She has her doubts.

* * *

Roger hisses as he slides the needle into his forearm, into the vividly blue vein all too visible on his pale skin, despite the collection of track marks and scars there in the crook of his arm. No matter how many times he does this, it still hurts – he'd used to think it might go away after a while. Now he's merely resigned himself to it, and gotten used to waiting for the rush to overtake the pain.

He's barely slid the needle out of his arm when the bedroom door swings open. Roger looks up sharply and there's Mark in the doorway, frozen, one hand on the knob – and Roger is sitting cross-legged on the bed with a tourniquet around his bicep and a used syringe in his hand. Their eyes lock, and they're silent for long moments, Roger's heart in his throat. It's not that Mark doesn't know – he has to, by now – but he's never been _forced_ to know before. It's different.

Mark takes a step back, murmurs a barely audible "Sorry," and starts to back out of the room, starts to close the door. Maybe it's the smack or maybe it's something else, but Roger is suddenly angry, furious, and in an instant he drops the needle, lunges off the bed, and crosses the room with a couple steps. He wrenches the door out of Mark's hand, and Mark jumps as the door slams back against the wall with a crash, or maybe the jumping is because Roger's grabbed his arm, fingers tight enough to bruise.

"Say something," he growls, his voice harsh and grating in his own ears and it doesn't really sound like him. "Fucking say _something_, don't just pretend it's not there."

Mark tries not to pull away, but Roger tightens his grip even more, and Mark's eyes widen. Roger's never been this rough with him, and _never_ outside of sex, and it's obvious Mark doesn't quite know what to make of it. Roger doesn't either. "Roger, I don't know what the hell you want me to say."

"_Care_! I want you to care." He steps forward, and Mark takes a step back, as much as he can with Roger still holding his arm. He looks like he's _scared_, like he doesn't recognize Roger, but then, Roger doesn't quite recognize himself. "I want you to act like we're more than strangers who live together and sometimes sleep together."

Mark doesn't answer, just watches him with his mouth slightly open, and it's the most uncertain Roger's ever seen him look. After a moment, it becomes obvious Mark's not going to say anything, and so Roger shoves him away roughly. Mark stumbles into the wall; Roger stalks past him, toward the door, and leaves without a word. Mark still doesn't say anything to stop him.

* * *

Roger doesn't mean to end up at April's apartment. It's hard to end up in a place that far from home on _accident_, but the subway ride passes in a mechanical daze he travels more out of habit than conscious thought, gets out a block from April's building, walks in and is ignored by the security guard, who recognizes him. He stops at April's door, barely remembering how he got here, to the third floor, to this part of town at all... but here he is, standing in the hall, staring at her closed door. He should knock, but she'd left so suddenly the last time he saw her, at his last gig, and she hasn't picked up the phone since then, like she's refusing to speak to him. God, if he's lost April like he's lost Mark... Well, no. He never _lost_ Mark, because he never had him to start with. But if he knocks and April turns him away...

He takes a few steps back until his back hits the wall, his eyes still locked on the door. As soon as he reaches the wall, his legs buckle under him, all the strength going out of them. Abruptly he is sitting on the floor, not really sure how he got there, and not particularly caring. He could knock. Maybe should. Instead he's just sitting here, across from April's door, not even sure if she's home or not...

His eyes slide closed almost of their own accord, he leans his head back against the wall, lets out a slow breath. He's fine sitting here. He's... safe here. He doesn't have to worry about Mark and the fact that he doesn't give a shit about him, he doesn't have to face April, he can just sit here and... be. That's all he wants for now. Not having to think, for just a little while.

A little while turns out to be longer than he'd expected. He hears a door open, a footstep, and considers opening his eyes, but they're so heavy, he's so tired it doesn't seem worth the effort, and if he just sits here with his eyes closed there's a chance whoever it is will just walk by him and ignore him, let him be. He just wants to sit here a little while longer, until he gets up the courage to knock on April's door. That's not too much to ask, is it?

"Roger?"

Roger opens his eyes and sees April standing in the doorway directly across the hall, staring at him with those beautiful blue eyes. He used to think they were the second most beautiful eyes in the city, after Mark's. Now, he can't think of anything more lovely. He stares at her, blue eyes and a red dress that clings to her hips and breasts and every curve, and finds he can barely breathe.

"Hey, baby," he whispers in a rough, ragged voice that still doesn't really sound like it belongs to him. "Can I come in?" 


	13. Chapter 13

"Home already?" Mark asks mildly when Roger comes through the door, and Roger can't ignore the bite just underneath that innocent tone.

"Fuck off," Roger growls, slamming the door behind him and starting toward his room, fighting not to meet Mark's eyes so he won't see the smug mockery in his gaze.

"Where'd you go?" Mark asks, too innocent, too sweet, and it makes Roger want to strangle him. He stands in the doorway of his room, knowing that if he goes in Mark will just follow him, fingertips pressing hard against the wood of the door frame and leaning on it heavily, reminding himself to breathe...

When he doesn't answer, Mark gets to his feet off the couch – Roger doesn't turn to look, but he can hear it, and tenses as Mark walks up behind him. He can feel the warmth of him on his back, he's standing so close, and he hates him, hates that he _loves_ him... "She sent you home, didn't you?"

Roger clenches his jaw, tightens his grip on the door frame until his knuckles whiten. "She was on her way out of the house. I wasn't going to bother her."

"Some girlfriend."

Mark's already started to turn away when Roger whirls around, grabs his arm and shoves him against the wall with a thump. Mark winces but doesn't push him away. "Shut up," Roger growls. "Shut up right now."

"Fine. Serves me right for making conversation."

Roger's fingers tighten around his arms. He wants to bruise him. He wants to shove him again, make him bleed. He wants to kiss him, press himself against him and never move away... He pries his hands away and jerks back, hands raised as if in surrender. "Never mind." He steps around him, starts back into his room, but stops when Mark calls after him.

"Hey! Is this how it's going to be? I piss you off so you go running to _her_ to make it better?" Roger can see him out of the corner of his eye, rubbing his shoulder like he'd really hurt something. Roger's not sure whether he's glad, or whether he wants to turn back and make sure he's okay.

"...Yes," he says firmly, at last, and then, without looking back, adds, "I don't love you." The lie burns like bile in his throat, but he won't take it back, and there's a dull, aching sort of satisfaction as he slams the bedroom door shut behind him.

* * *

Mark slips into bed some time after Roger's asleep. Roger wakes up in the middle of the night with Mark curled against his side, and it takes him a moment to remember he hadn't been there when he fell asleep. Mark isn't sleeping.

"I'm sorry," he says, as soon as he notices Roger's awake and watching him, and that's surprise enough, though Roger suspects it's partially because he doesn't want Roger to shove him out of bed, make him sleep on the couch. "I didn't mean to..."

"Bullshit." Despite the words, Roger can't manage any sort of rancor. He just sounds tired. "You meant it."

"Then I'm sorry for meaning it," Mark says without missing a beat, and shifts to prop himself up on one arm, looking down at him, studying, and he looks so fucking sincere and Roger _hates_ him for it. Nevertheless, he lifts his head to kiss him, one hand reaching up to pull him down on top of him.

He doesn't even pull back from the kiss before speaking, his lips still brushing Mark's. "Okay." His hand runs down from Mark's neck, over his shoulder, down his arm, and he pauses. "I didn't hurt you before, did I?"

Mark rolls his shoulder cautiously, grimacing a bit. "It's kind of sore," he admits.

"Good," Roger says, almost a growl, and kisses him again, harder, before he can say anything. If he says one more thing, Roger knows he's going to want to beat the crap out of him, but thankfully, Mark seems to give up on speaking after that. His hands are running down Roger's sides, over his bare chest...

Roger's heart hurts, and he doesn't want to examine too closely just why, because he knows already. He has a sense for endings, and he can hear the chords of this one starting to draw it to a close. He ignores it, and pulls Mark tighter to him, and digs his fingers in hard enough to bruise, bites his lip hard enough to bleed, and fuck the ending, because Mark is his, now, even if it's for the last time.

* * *

April's door is unlocked when Roger tries it, and he frowns a little. She had told him the other day that he could just come over, because she didn't have the time to talk when they met out in the hallway, but he's here a little early, she ought to be at work now, and April... April may be a junkie, a party girl, but Roger knows her. She doesn't skip work for no reason.

He nudges open the door cautiously and leans in, calling softly, "April?"

She doesn't answer. Instead, he hears something dripping, somewhere in the apartment, and that gives him pause as well. In April's apartment, things don't drip. Nothing leaks, nothing is left running when it should not be. April's apartment is immaculate, white counters and walls and tile, everything where and as it should be, and he's never once heard a faucet running when it wasn't being used. He steps inside, closes the door behind him cautiously, careful to make as little sound as possible with it. It seems that any unnecessary noise might disturb something here, and he doesn't know what it is that would be disturbed, but he's fairly certain he doesn't want to.

"Baby? Are you here?"

Of course she's here, because the door is unlocked, but... Maybe she's napping, maybe she's home because she's sick, maybe she's...

The light is on in the bathroom, the door cracked partially open. Roger stops, and then walks toward the open door, his footsteps too loud in the silent apartment.

He stops again in the doorway. It occurs to him, abstractly, that this is the most color he's ever seen in April's apartment. It's always bone white or washed out shades, down to April's fair skin and blond hair. Roger used to think sometimes, in a wry, not entirely serious way, that April had fallen for him because he matched the color scheme of her apartment so well. Now... Red fills the tub, tints her hair a sort of strawberry blond, is splashed on the floor here and there, and in a lipstick message on the mirror.

His mind is moving too fast, and he can't slow it down. It's moving too fast to notice what's actually written on the mirror, other than that the note's there, too fast to read the words scrawled there (_We've got AIDS,_ in April's too-neat hand). All he can think about is what he was going to say to her – _I left Mark, I love you, please forgive me._


	14. Chapter 14

Roger barely moves after calling the hospital. He stands by the kitchen, leaning against the counter, where he can still see into the bathroom, because if he can't see into the bathroom, he won't believe she's gone. But standing here, he can see the blood on the white tiles, he can see the red water, he can see a little of her body and he knows, in a cold and empty way, that this is real.

He stands there as the paramedics rush in and take her body, he answers their questions and tells them yes, they can call someone to pick him up, he gives them the number to the loft and when they're gone he continues to stand there, shaking a little but mostly numb, and part of the reason he continues to stand is that he's leaning against the kitchen counter now, and the nearest seat is the couch, five feet away, and he doesn't trust his feet to carry him that far, he doesn't trust that they won't buckle underneath him and then he'll just be curled on the floor, shaking like a scared and lost child.

After a time, he notices something on the fridge, something that wasn't here the last time he visited, a blue sticky note with April's handwriting on it. He stares at it for several minutes, afraid to take the few steps between the counter and the fridge to grab it, and finally musters the energy to walk that far, grab the note, and return to the counter. It's several more minutes before he actually looks at it.

He's not sure what he expected to find. Something more than the note on the mirror, some letter that fit on a sticky note, something to apologize, to tell him she loves him. Instead, he finds a few poet's names at the top, crossed out several times (the only one he can read is Elizabeth Barrett Browning), and a few lines of a poem.

_– Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture  
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident  
the art of losing's not too hard to master  
though it may look like (Write it!) disaster._

He's still holding the note when Mark comes into the apartment. "What happened?" he asks, and Roger doesn't think before he answers in a soft, hushed voice he's not even sure Mark can hear from the doorway.

"I lost."

* * *

Breathing is something Roger remembers how to do. Occasionally he'll eat, sleep, but for the most part his days are spent in bed, lying on his side, staring at the wall. Mark still sleeps in his bed, and Roger doesn't make him leave, but whenever Mark touches him he pulls away, curls into himself. After a while, Mark gives up.

Or Roger thinks he has, until after a couple weeks Mark sits down on the edge of the bed, and doesn't speak at first, doesn't move, just sits and watches him, until Roger uncurls a little to look up at him, silently questioning.

"How long are you gonna do this?" Mark asks, and Roger frowns, pushing himself up on one arm to look at him.

"What?"

"I understand you're upset and all with... April, but..."

Roger tenses, takes a breath and lets it out slowly, trying not to go off on him. He still has to say through gritted teeth, "But what?"

"Life goes on," Mark says, and for a moment looks like he's going to say more. He seems to change his mind when he sees Roger's expression. His mouth snaps shut, but there's still this _look_ in his eyes, that he has something more on his mind...

"Get out," Roger snaps.

Mark frowns, standing up but not moving away beyond that. "Roger–"

"Get _out_, Mark!"

Startled, Mark stumbles for the door, then stops in the doorway, glancing back at Roger. "Do you want... food or something?"

Roger falls back onto the bed, shaking his head as he curls into a ball once more. Mark hangs briefly in the doorway, then backs out slowly, closing the door gently behind him.

* * *

It's snowing when Roger finally gets out of bed. He can't see it, all the curtains in his room are drawn, but he can hear it, the gentle tinkling, hissing sound it makes against the windows. From the sound of it, the city will be covered in white by nightfall.

He opens the bedroom door and just stands there between bedroom and living room. Mark's curled on the couch in a pile of blankets where he's been sleeping for the past few days, cup of coffee in hand; Benny is at the kitchen table, also with a cup of coffee. Ignoring Benny's presence there, leaning on the door frame a bit too heavily, Roger focuses on Mark and says just loudly enough to be heard, "You wanted her to die."

Mark looks up, blinking in surprise. "What?"

"April," Roger clarifies, not that any clarification is needed, because there's only ever one _she_ he talks about, certainly lately. "You wanted her to die. I left her for you, and you–"

"Roger," Mark says flatly, interrupting him. "You're not seriously implying that I _did_ something to–"

"No, but it doesn't bother you, what happened to her! Does it?" He's shouting now, and his throat hurts, screaming after he hasn't spoken for so long, but he doesn't care. Benny quietly stands and retreats to his bedroom, coffee still in hand, and neither Mark or Roger spare him a momentary glance or the briefest attention.

Mark is silent for a long time, jaw clenched, eyes cold and fiercely defiant, and at last he says quietly, "No."

"Son of a–"

Mark lurches to his feet , walking to meet Roger in the doorway of his bedroom – their bedroom. "You expect me to not care? That you loved her more than me? I care. And you left me for her, so it fucking serves you right that she left you, shows how much _she_ loved you–"

Roger doesn't think before reacting. His hand curls itself into a fist of its own accord. His arm whips up to punch him, and none of it has a thing to do with conscious thought, and Roger barely realizes what he's done until Mark reels back, holding his face where Roger hit him and staring at him with wide eyes. Roger's voice is strangely calm as he says, "And you didn't love me at all."

There is a silence for a moment, filled only by Mark's ragged breaths, and finally he says, very quietly, "I love you."

Another silence, too long, as Roger tries to remember to breathe. "Well then," he says, for a moment finding nothing else to say, and finally adds, "What are we going to do about that?"

Mark drops his hand from his face, still wincing a little, and there's a red mark that soon will undoubtedly become a large purple bruise. "I don't know."

Roger takes several long breaths and then shakes his head, taking a step back from the doorway. "You should get tested," he says, and fuck, why hadn't this come a few weeks earlier, why had three words been so difficult to say until _now_... He wants to throw himself at Mark, wrap his arms around him and bury his face in his shoulder, fall apart and have Mark's arms around him as a reassurance that even after falling apart, he'll be put back together. But he can't do that now. That is a world and a half away, behind him now, and as Mark nods and mumbles a promise that he'll get tested, he can only turn away and close the door. 


End file.
